


Suggestion

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Antisemitism, Enemies to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, OR IS IT, set Abundance on fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24641080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Anton Rogue asks Viktor to pretend to be his datemate for the sake of settling a dispute with another gang over a weekend. Viktor agrees.
Relationships: Anton Rogue/Viktor Watcher
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Suggestion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Haaska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haaska/gifts).



> <3 For the one who survived being dragged into this ship.

As a detective and the Director of the ASC, Viktor is used to facing emergencies and unexpected events all the time. Such is the nature of his duty. And though Viktor receives phone calls from the Vory boss once in a while about many unusual things, he doesn’t expect to hear: “ _Mon Colonel_ , I want you to be my boyfriend.”

Viktor stares at his phone. It is duly counting up seconds of the talk in small white digits under the familiar number. He brings it to his ear again. “Pardon?”

“I mean. My partner, since you are not a boy... Or whichever term you are more comfortable. It’s for the weekend or so.”

_“Pardon?”_

“Oh, uh...” (Viktor can imagine Anton rubbing the nape of his neck; the Vor sounds agitated yet as though he’s trying to control it, but his accent slips through, his first languages taking over.) “I have a meeting outside the city, with another boss, and the thing is in that he’s a kind of... _old-school_ boss, and every time I try spend negotiations, he doesn’t listen me and it ends in him nagging me about settling down and ‘doing it proper’ and getting a spouse.”

Viktor chuckles. He knows how traditionalist the old crime lords are, and the less power they have, the more rigid they become. “Perhaps a girlfriend would be more appropriate, then?”

“Oh, come on, Viktor, he’s old but he’s not a that much of _fossil_.”

“Why me?”

“Well, I can’t take anyone of mine: if they slip a ‘boss’ into conversation, it would be bad taste, you know? And you are a good actor...”

He leans back in his chair, thinking about his current cases. Most of them are on a waiting stage, and those that are not, do not require urgency at this moment. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

“Really?” The relief and enthusiasm are so obvious in his Vor’s voice that Viktor smiles to himself. “Thank you. I’ll make it up to you. I know you... ah. Might be uncomfortable with it. We have to come to a little family holiday, but I’ll be decent, I promise.”

Viktor snorts. “You? Decent? I _am_ worried now.”

Anton huffs.

Viktor presents briefly his persona: Andrej, an artist. Viktor is quite fond of it, it is established well, and he explains that it fits Anton: known to take people under his wing, Anton must have discovered this dashing but struggling artist and decided to help... And later, Anton can easily explain a “breakup” with “He is too artistic”. They agree to work on details later on the train.

Viktor notifies Henry about his future absence on weekend, and, ensuring that there are no urgent matters to attend to, he goes back to his place. He takes mission outfits out to survey them. He must tweak the persona to the occasion. He calls Anton again and puts him on the speaker, leaving the phone on the bed: “Mr Rogalyov, do you have a... somewhat obscure, yet known tendency to give tokens of affection?”

There is silence, though there are vague noises in the background... Like something frying? “Is that a trick question, _mon Colonel_?”

“Far from it. I am assembling the outfit for Andrej, but I need to work on details I might need to take with me.”

“You treat it very seriously.”

“A task worth doing is worth doing well,” he says, running fingers over a classy short woolen coat. The weather promises to be warm during the day but cold once the sun sets, so this might be appropriate. “More importantly, I am just as interested in your settling the... issue as you are.”

Another pause. Something hisses, like fresh ingredients added to a frying pan. “You know what’s this about?”

“I have a guess. The land dispute with—”

“Yeah. That.” Anton’s voice drips with bitterness. “A stupid thing, really. I’m almost embarrassed to involve you. But why are you interested in it? I mean,” Anton adds hastily, probably remembering who he’s talking with, “aside from the obvious.”

“I don’t need a turf war. They tend to involve civilians.”

“We _are_ civilians,” Anton grumbles. “But I get you.”

“What is the reason for it, by the way? I’m not asking it in... a professional capacity, but rather...” He pulls a dark-blue tie, then puts it back. No, a tastefully placed scarf would do better. “Curiosity? We never quite understood what this rather prolonged dispute was started by.”

“Oh, it _is_ stupid. It’s about the last gerrymandering. Gods, I wish the Assembly stopped redrawing district lines. Anyway, the last time the lines were redrawn, part of the Apfels’ turf ended up, formally, on our side, but their boss still considers it theirs. Which we’d be perfectly fine with—but, since it’s all official, that part is now under governing of the local council of our district.”

“And therefore,” Viktor continues, “the local head of the council is yours to blackmail about things in that additional part.”

“Blackmail, petition, argue with—whatever gets her actually doing something for the people living there. But the Apfels’ boss—”

“—considers it an intrusion into his own affairs?”

“ _D’ac_. Hence the dispute.”

“It does sound like it warrants most serious attention,” Viktor says, “and I don’t wish to ruin any possibility of an agreement by playing my role badly. So, about tokens?”

“I... am not sure. Do gifts to my kiddies count?”

Viktor always notes this _kiddies_. “And to romantic partners? Or... being-courted potential partners?”

“No. I mean. I don’t know? Never... I don’t have much experience in this romance stuff.”

Alright. Understandable. “Imagine, however, if we were truly datemates...”

Anton hums. “It would be something small and personal. Like your cigarette case.”

Viktor stops, glances at the case in question lying on the desk. The Vor noticed it. Incredible. “Hm. So I will simply take it with me. Alright, Mr Rogalyov, I will think more about this and take a few things, and we discuss it further later. Good night! And have a nice dinner.”

Anton chuckles. “Soon we will be having dinner together, my sweet.”

Despite the initial plan to work on details en route, they keep exchanging ideas over text and phone as the week continues. Viktor finds himself checking his phone often, the prospect of finding more about his Vor... exciting.

>How did we meet, my dear Tony?

<Remember that party about four months ago? In that gallery... The one which ended with three stabbings.

>I remember it well.

<You were there, Andrej, weren’t you?

>You noticed! And I noticed you, Tony. The red jacket suits you very well.

<Thank you, my sweet.

>However: four months?

<We are trying to go stable, aren’t we?

>Yes, you are right. We are serious about it, after all. Rushing in such matters wouldn’t be good.

<Are you alright with “my sweet” and such? I can drop all of it.

<Don’t want to cause you unnecessary discomfort.

>It’s fine. And adds to the ruse.

<Still.

<If something is uncomfortable, please tell me.

<I’d rather give anyone who asks some excuse than to make it worse for you.

>I will tell.

<Thank you.

Viktor brings only a backpack to the train station in the afternoon when they are to set off. It is for a few days, Andrej is not a very scandalous type of artist, and the point is to appear “proper”, not to make everyone remember the man with Anton. Perhaps Viktor can even play a “domesticating” influence on Anton.

He smiles to Anton, though notes the Vor rocking on his heels. Nerves?

They board the train. It is only the two of them in the compartment, to have an opportunity to plan further, but there are strangers around nonetheless on the train, and they must rehearse at least something. So he bends to Anton and kisses him.

Anton sucks in a breath.

Viktor pulls back. “Is something wrong?”

Anton’s eyes are closed, and Viktor takes the opportunity to study his face. Is it just the light or are Anton’s brows and lashes... red? There is a scar behind the right temple, and Viktor never quite realized how sensual Anton’s mouth looks.

“Just,” Anton says quietly. “It’s been... a while. A long while. Sorry.”

Viktor moves away, unzips his backpack. Giving Anton space. Asks as casually as he can: “How long a while, if you don’t mind?”

“Years. Ah. I don’t know. Fifteen years, maybe? Twenty? Sorry. You probably... I should shut up.”

“Is it known?” He glances at Anton.

The Vor shrugs.

Viktor mostly asked to be polite. He knew—but... At the same time, he didn’t know. He didn’t know it personally, from the Vor himself—he only had his observations and analysis and theories. He should clarify, though, but can’t make himself ask further. He feels that Anton meant it about... About romance and dating. About... being kissed.

Many people would find Anton sexually attractive, Viktor has no doubt. But maybe...

Oh, maybe he’s thinking too much.

“You are alright,” he says, unnecessarily. “And I can work with that. It shows that our relationship is very serious.”

“And then it will break apart?”

Viktor sits down on his bed. Anton looks like he doesn’t want to be here, like he feels trapped: standing in the middle of the compartment, big and in his gang jacket though it isn’t immediately recognizable as such. Twitchy, as though there is so much energy in him that he can’t spend here. Thumb rubbing the cat’s head ring.

“Tell them I turned out bad. That I only wanted your money or influence—”

Anton snorts. “Then I’m a fool if I didn’t see it from the beginning.”

“Maybe you were blinded by love.”

Anton presses his lips tight.

“Or tell them,” Viktor suggests, “that I tried to sell you to the ASC. Or that I work for the ASC.”

At least his attempt to lighten the mood makes Anton’s mouth quirk. “As amusing as it is, it’s a terrible idea, because they might hunt Andrej the Agent.”

Viktor smirks. “Tell them you found out I secretly hate your cooking.”

Anton gasps almost comically, hand brought to the mouth. “Outrageous!”

“That I’m a slob... That I constantly demanded sex and you got late to gang fights all the time—”

“Oh gods.”

“That I mock your French.”

“No!”

“That I am a terrible kisser and you’ve had enough of that...”

“Please stop.”

Anton is laughing, making this worth the effort.

Viktor takes out his notebook, and... He isn’t surprised that Anton has brought food—sandwiches, a thermos—for this three-hour ride, but Viktor is surprised when one of those sandwiches, stuffed thick, is pushed silently to him across the small table.

“Making notes on _moi_?” Anton asks casually.

Viktor smiles. “No, what are you talking about, my dear? This is my sketchbook.” He turns the notebook to Anton—and delights in the sight of pink appearing on Anton’s cheeks.

It is as enjoyable as sketching Anton’s profile.

“So you _can_ draw.”

“Somewhat.” He takes the notebook back to himself and starts another sketch.

He knows Anton... knew before. Knew that Anton was to his apartment and probably looked into the folder Viktor had forgotten to hide. The one with his tattoo designs and with sketches of his people. But Anton hasn’t used any of it against him—so far, at least.

They spend the ride in discussions half-idle, half-essential, Anton feeding him sandwiches and Viktor sketching his companion. It is the most peace Viktor has had in weeks.

Their destination is still within the limits of Ophir—but just barely. The place takes pride in having its own name in addition to a string of district codes, but the shadow of Ophir stretches far: the train platform is crumbling and needs a coat of paint, a redoing of railings—but the propaganda posters are the same as everywhere, though here bleached and fraying from exposure to the elements.

They take a short walk slightly away from the main street, turning into a long, well-tended paved driveway leading to wrought gates. Anton waves to the camera, and the gates open. The house itself and the surrounding territory scream of big money. From what little Viktor has seen of the area, nobody else has this kind of property around here. Apfels’ gang wasn’t among the biggest or most powerful even before Anton, but it has a strong base. Or used to have, Viktor notes to himself, matching his long strides to Anton’s.

Anton is obviously an important guest, because the master of the house greets him personally, standing on immaculately clean white steps of the house. “Anton, dear boy!” Then the gaze of clever eyes flickers to Viktor. “And with a companion? Finally you’ve brought a plus-one?”

“Thomas,” Anton rasps, and touches Viktor’s elbow. “This is Andrej, my… Well.”

Thomas Apfel smiles, thin and dangerous. “No need to be coy, boys, this is a family gathering. You can kiss freely.”

Viktor understands it’s a test. And he intends to do this very well. Anton murmurs that usually such things are private...

But Viktor smirks. “I’d do it the whole day.” And, taking Anton by the shoulder, kisses him hard.

Then his control over situation shatters when Anton wraps him in the arms and slips his tongue into Viktor’s mouth. A raspy, soft tongue, not quite claiming but definitely leading in the kiss, and Anton tastes of late-evening hot chocolate he had on the train and his strong vanilla cigarettes, and Viktor’s knees are weak.

He doesn’t know why. Maybe because he’s never been kissed like he’s worth it.

He feels that, if his hands hadn’t been resting on Anton’s shoulders, if Anton hadn’t been holding him, he would have sunk to his knees.

Anton ends the kiss with a slight nip to his bottom lip that makes Viktor almost moan, then brushes Viktor’s cheek, and embraces him in full.

Viktor has rarely experienced such... Calm. Such lack of thoughts. Anton smells of leather and faint flowery aftershave, and blood. Like a decadent wilting bouquet.

“I wasn’t sure how it’d work,” the other boss says—Viktor has even forgotten they aren’t alone, “with the height difference, but you have perfected it for sure, boys. Come on in, your room will be shown to you.”

They are risking their lives. If anything goes completely wrong, they can rely only on each other. And for these days, they must keep the play all the time, including when they are seemingly alone.

Viktor startles as Anton’s hand slips into his, but squeezes it nonetheless.

Why did he agree? Because he wants to work with Anton instead of _against_ him, for a change. Because he wants to learn more about his Vor.

Because he didn’t want Anton to die here.

Of course there is only one bed. It’s a nice bed, though Viktor doubts he’d be able to sleep in this environment anyway.

They are told where everything is. Since they’ve arrived rather late, they can go to the kitchen and help themselves to food. The household have already had dinner (“We are country people, sirs, we dine early.”).

When they are left alone, he comes behind Anton and wraps his arms around him. Anton is a tactile person, an embrace might comfort him, even though it comes from an enemy.

“Two days,” Anton says quietly, covering Viktor’s hand. He has a big palm, warm and firm.

Viktor kisses the top of his head. “It’ll be alright.”

They gets into more appropriate clothes, and wash, then Anton leads him to the kitchen, obviously familiar with this big, sprawling house—and Viktor seeks Anton’s hand again.

It’s not his first time on a mission outside Ophir or in the country—far from it. And he wouldn’t deny that he’s a city person. A city is loud, bright—but it can be kept at bay. Everything he might need, he can get easily. Here, it is... Old. The house is old and full of that heavy scent, damp and dry at the same time, that he can’t describe, but it sets him on edge. Ophir is an old city, stagnating in many ways—yet dynamic at the same time. Excessive: life and death dancing together, pressed chest to hip. Exciting. And anonymous, for the most part.

The country is stifling, lonely—yet full of eyes.

Anton laces their fingers, and Viktor doesn’t feel acutely on edge. Is this what having a partner feels like? Viktor knows how to work with someone, and did, but the closest to working with a partner has always been Henry—but Henry is his charge. Yes, capable, autonomous, but—Viktor is responsible for them. Bears their mistakes and their joys, their pain and their nightmares.

Anton is... Isn’t his. Except for being his enemy, of course. Right now, Anton can kill him. One word—and Viktor wouldn’t get out of here alive. Yet... Yet there is this equality of choosing each other. Choosing to work together.

It’s strange and reassuring, and scary.

Right now, Anton isn’t an asset and isn’t an enemy.

The kitchen is lovely and huge. Not cavernous, but still somewhat... nauseating. Viktor would have never thought he’d be intimidated by the sight of a three-meter long cooking table, two double-door fridges, two stoves, a separate oven and heavy wooden doors that he suspects lead to the walk-in freezer.

There is a pot in the oven—Anton isn’t as tense as Viktor feels, looking right inside, then at Viktor. “Pasta and beans?”

Viktor nods.

His mood slightly improves when both of them realize that Anton can’t quite reach the cupboard with plates. Viktor chuckles, getting a glare from his Vor, then leans right over—above—Anton, giving another kiss to his shaved head in process, and taking out two plates.

“Tall people, I swear,” Anton grumbles.

When they set their small dinner—the kettle is top-stove, not electric—Viktor notices a pair of huge eyes looking at himself.

“Hello.”

The eyes dart to Anton, and a kid in a short dress throws themself into Anton’s arms. Anton chuckles, wrapping the child into his arms. “Marion! Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”

“It’s babies time, and I’m old enough, Uncle Anton. Grandpa said you’d come!”

“Well, I did promise to come for Easter, didn’t I? Let me look at your dress.”

Marion hops away and swirls, barefoot. Viktor can guess who’s the princess of this house.

“I’m not supposed to wear it until Sunday, but I love it!”

“It’s a lovely dress,” Anton nods with the look of an expert. “I’ll send you a peony for it when they bloom, yes?”

“Yay!” She throws her arms around him again—then one big eye glances at Viktor. “Hello! Who are you?”

Viktor notes that she’s not exactly afraid or timid, standing with Anton. Anton has a way with children, Viktor had noticed a while ago—though in Upper Ophir his name is used to instill fear in children’s hearts instead...

“I’m Andrej,” Viktor says with a smile. “Uncle Anton’s... future husband.”

Her eyes get even bigger and she looks at the blushing Anton in delight. “You are getting married? When?”

“Well.” Anton rubs the nape of his neck. Viktor enjoys his little torture. “Well, sweetie, it’s not so fast, alright? We... We don’t know yet. Remember how long it took to prepare the wedding for your Auntie last year?”

She taps her teeth. “But you _will_ tell me about it, right?”

“Of course I will.”

Marion is already striding to Viktor like a general about to survey the troops. Then looks up. “You are tall! What do you do? How did you meet? Do you like Zee-Zee? Do you like my dress? Are you staying for Easter?”

He crouches and replies: “Yes, I’m tall. I draw things. We met at a party. Who’s Zee-Zee?” He glances at Anton and sees him mouth _Ezrah_. Zee-Zee. This is so _fun_. “Yes, I like him. And your dress. Yes, I’ve come for Easter with Tony.”

She looks at him with astonishment, and he wonders whether he’s winning her heart with “drawing things” or with keeping up with all the questions. “Will you draw my dress?”

“I can draw you any dress, but! Tomorrow, right? We are a little tired. We are old and frail...”

She giggles. He can’t tell how old Marion is. “You are good. I’m going to sleep now. You’ll draw tomorrow, I remember!” She waves before disappearing just as quickly as she came.

Viktor watches Anton watch her go with a slight smile. Then Anton shakes his head. “Dinner?”

The pasta is hearty, and it takes a few moments for Viktor to realize that it must be fresh, homemade. Someone cooks here full-time. They can afford it.

Anton lives in a tiny apartment, alone.

“ _Zee-Zee?_ ” Viktor notes aloud.

Anton glances at him. “Mind that Ez might shoot you.”

He chuckles. “I won’t mention it, then.”

Ezrah—Anton’s “firstborn”. He isn’t even an “officer” in the Vory, but certainly dearly loved. Anton’s weakness, like each and every one Vor.

A mirror image of a certain lieutenant. A quirk of fates bringing one into a military unit and another into as much freedom as can be had in Abundance. But fates didn’t work without claiming a price: the twins are the same in the face but that is all the similarity on a physical level. Zachariah is bulky enough, tall—and Ezrah is wiry sinews, the same height as Anton. He knows what starving is like.

The way Anton looks at Ezrah makes something tighten in Viktor’s chest whenever he catches the sight of it.

“André?”

He blinks. “Sorry. You right, I’m a little tired.”

“That’s the country air. It always knocks me out like a hammer.”

After dinner, they are back at their room, getting ready for bed.

“Shower, sweet one?”

Viktor shakes his head, digging Anton’s T-shirt, swapped during their train ride, out of his backpack. “No, I’ll leave it to the morning. I think I might fall asleep right on the spot.” It’s a perfect excuse to give Anton some space.

He gets into the T-shirt and soft pants and slides into the bed. It’s too high, too soft, but he hopes he’d be able to get at least an hour of sleep. The T-shirt is comfortably soft and vaguely smells of... the sun? Anton dries his laundry on the balcony? It is also big. Viktor is aware that Anton is a big man, but he hasn’t been this acutely aware of it. One sleeve keeps sliding down his shoulder, and Viktor ceases fixing it after the fourth time.

He’s sketching Anton again when Anton enters the room. But doesn’t move.

Viktor lifts his gaze to find something like... fascination on Anton’s face, eyes on Viktor. On his... chest? Viktor looks down at himself: the soft white T-shirt almost opening one shoulder.

He smirks up at Anton. “See something you like?”

“ _Someone_ ,” Anton says, the husk of his voice even thicker than usual. “And not like, but _adore_.”

Viktor puts the notebook and the pen on the bedside drawers just as Anton strides to him and pushes him into the pillows with the strength of his kiss. Viktor throws his arms onto Anton’s shoulders, smiling. Kissing Anton is so enjoyable.

Anton climbs over him and they shift until they are on their sides, until Viktor nuzzles Anton’s freshly-shaven cheek, that flowery scent thicker.

He could seduce Anton.

The thought slices through his good mood, reminding him of where he is, who he’s with...

Anton pulls back, frowning. The single lamp on Viktor’s side of the bed makes it definitely look like his lashes and brows have a red tint. “What’s wrong?”

He must maintain the cover. This is a mission, that is all.

He rubs his thumb over Anton’s shoulder—a caress of a lover. “Nothing. Just tired. A little... Vertigo?”

Anton studies his face for a few moments more, serious, clever—then his eyes soften, and he reaches over Viktor, puts the lights out, then pulls the blanket higher. “It’s the air. It’ll pass.”

“Yes. I hope so.”

He hopes his training and experience would allow him to maintain the ruse even in their sleep, if he does fall asleep.

Anton finds his hand and squeezes. Viktor drifts away still holding hands with his enemy.

Viktor wakes up suddenly, with the stabbing feeling of being watched. He is on his side facing the window, Anton pressed to his back. And someone is standing in the doorway. _Watching_.

Viktor is unable to breathe—even though he has to, has to maintain the illusion he’s asleep.

His hand is squeezed. Somehow they’ve been holding hands all this time, but maybe... Then Anton laces their fingers in a way that shows he is just as asleep as Viktor. And Viktor can breathe again. He squirms, imitating involuntary movement, Anton slurs something, they fall silent again.

The one watching them retreats, and the fact that this isn’t just hallucination is confirmed by a quiet click of the door.

They are being watched. Closely.

Anton brings their locked hands higher and drags his thumb over Viktor’s chest, then taps it...

Morse code?

_“A camera, too.”_

He draws the answer on the back of Anton’s palm.

_“I noticed.”_

_“I’m here. Together.”_

He just squeezes Anton’s hand tight in reply. Then, upon thinking, adds: _“No sex, then?”_

Anton snorts behind him. _“Kinky.”_

The next time he wakes up with a slight ringing in his head from all the fresh air, Anton still pressed behind him—and hard.

It’s been a while. Anton isn’t broken like him. They’ve been playing their roles too well. It might be just... Just a thing.

All these thoughts race through his head, not very helping him to decide what to do. Anton is awake, he knows... But Anton’s arm has been under Viktor’s head. Could it be that Anton tried to choose between avoiding awkwardness and waking Viktor?

...He could even work with it. Slide his hand into Anton’s pants, or suck him off. It would uphold their ruse and it would be a move in seduction.

He is sick with himself.

He turns slightly, looking over his shoulder at Anton. Into his very awake eyes. Then smiles. “Morning. I’m to the shower.” He pecks Anton on the cheek and slides out.

The washroom isn’t far, and Viktor checks carefully but it doesn’t seem to be bugged in any way, at least. The house feels even more hostile, and Viktor washes and shaves quickly. He doesn’t want to be away from Anton for too long.

Breakfast is a lot more formal and loud and full, people coming with greetings, going, in and out. Viktor shakes so many hands and gets kissed on the cheeks so much he hardly notices the breakfast itself.

But he notices other things.

He knows this gang is built traditionally on family-like ties and actual blood ties. There is a strong sense of rigid hierarchy, not only in that everyone knows their place and defers to the ultimate authority of The Boss, but also everyone knows who is more equal here. Blood relatives are more powerful, blood children—heirs—are spoiled. And Thomas Apfel is above everyone.

Viktor has nearly forgotten that Vory are unique. A family like those old, sometime-powerful gangs, Vory are also egalitarian like youth gangs. They care about each other and the community. Anton is their father, uncle, mother, brother—anything they need, and they listen to him, yes—but he’s not their _god_. He doesn’t expect obedience—he expects them to look after each other and to use their brains.

Maybe that is one of the many reasons why bosses of old hate him. Despise him. Fear him.

More and more friends, relatives, acquaintances arrive or stop by. Thomas, like the benevolent patriarch, commands, accepts tributes.

Sixty-three, he’s younger than many other powerful bosses. A widower, though with a big clan of grandchildren. He settled out back into the country early enough that his dispute with Anton is mostly this territory issue. There were old “families” who went into all-out wars with the Vory. The key word being “were”.

It is all pre-Easter preparations, and judging by decor, by people, gifts, food, it will be an Easter mostly stripped of religiosity—as far as it can be that at all. It’s still Easter.

Anton doesn’t celebrate Easter. He’s Jewish, and it is well-known; he’s an atheist, or agnostic, Viktor didn’t ask, and doesn’t uphold many traditions. He brought blinis to the HQ last year and this year, too, he wears marigolds on the Day of the Dead, he makes moon cakes... And doesn’t celebrate Easter, except when his kids invite him to or he sends greetings and makes kuliches for them.

Viktor wonders whether the Apfels inviting Anton to Easter is gross blindness or a deliberate insult. After the visitation at night, he thinks it’s the latter.

Viktor himself can probably be called culturally Catholic, because that’s how his mentor trained him, deeming it useful. He sees nothing but a tool in Christianity and can’t see how it can bring any consolation except through brainwashing. And if there is a God, Viktor has seen so many things he’d like to bring that God to answer for.

Anton has taken a ball to play with children of various ages in the yard—there are so many. Viktor likes watching him with kids.

“I know why you are here.”

He looks at the patriarch. Unlike many of such bosses, Thomas hasn’t become doughy. Viktor wonders how much his trainer is paid.

“To settle this territory issue,” Viktor says.

Thomas looks a little surprised. “He told you.”

“I knew. I know what he is, Mr Apfel, and what he does.”

“And the temptation of power and money is difficult to resist, isn’t it?”

Viktor feels his face go numb. He allows his cold anger to show, just a little. “I’m not with him for that. I love him.”

“He’s easy to love.”

No, Viktor wants to say. Anton isn’t. He has anger issues. He can be vengeful and cruel and violent. He can be spiteful. Nobody is easy to love. If one thinks someone is easy, they don’t know that person well.

“I chose him,” he says.

Thomas looks through the window. The children seem to have conspired to tackle Anton—but he’s not easy to tackle. Viktor knows.

“He hasn’t changed much,” Thomas says—theatrical prick. “But getting a stable lover gives him weight, isn’t it?”

Viktor works his jaw. “We are not trying to prove anything. And he isn’t using me. I trust him.”

“Do you, now. I remember the time when he used that pretty mouth for something other than giving orders.”

Viktor feels detaching from himself. Shielding from anger in analysis.

Most of Anton’s past, his early years, is unknown. There are rumors, but Anton most likely started them himself, although there must be a grain of truth in them. Some things can be theorized, however.

Anton doesn’t seem to be willing to turn to survival sex—but it is called _survival_ for a reason.

“I don’t care,” he says quietly. Almost growls—but he mustn’t make Thomas feel threatened in his own house.

Thomas looks at him with cold amusement. “Is that so? How strong your love is! But you know, love and loyalty are not the same thing. I wonder how loyal you are, Andrej.” Thomas turns to him fully. The aging boss has to tilt his head up to look at Viktor properly.

He gives Viktor a long look, head to feet and back up, and Viktor’s blood freezes.

“Be a good boy, and I promise I will give him that part of territory without any conditions.”

“You are not into men,” Viktor hears himself say. His head feels like it’s made of murky glass, about to shatter.

The vile bag of scum shrugs. “A mouth is a mouth. I’m not asking for anything out of the ordinary, although it might take a while. Age, you know. You can even tell him, I don’t care.”

“If you plan to blackmail him,” Viktor says, “or shame him, or break us up...”

The bastard shrugs. “None of that, although you’d have to simply... trust me on that. What do you say?”

“Your word,” Viktor manages. “That you give him the contested territory without conditions.”

The boss nods. “My word. Tomorrow—if you—”

“I will.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

He feels soiled so badly, the way he hasn’t felt in a long time. Especially when Anton returns from the yard surrounded by the gaggle of children, a glimmer of laughter still in his eyes, and they look at each other and Anton’s expression shifts into concern...

Viktor looks away, fighting nausea.

He does throw up after lunch, then brushes his teeth until his gums bleed.

He decides to tell Anton after Apfel upholds his end of the deal. Not because what Viktor has done matters, but because Anton needs to know about Apfel’s duplicity and scheming.

He smiles and shakes more hands. Retreats into the kitchen to help with dinner, although the cook protests initially. Draws three dresses for Marion and tears the page out carefully to give to her.

Feels Anton’s concerned gaze all the time.

How can he sleep with Anton this night? Let Anton hold him, kiss him as though they are in love...

He wants Anton to wrap him in his arms. He knows he might be ruining it. That anyone with good attention might notice he’s almost... avoiding his lover.

When they are back in their room for the night, Anton takes Viktor’s face in his palms, and Viktor almost breaks.

“Is something wrong?” The worry and tenderness in Anton’s eyes, his tone are unbearable.

He touches his forehead to Anton’s. “Let’s take a shower together.”

“Okay. Okay, sweet one.”

He clings to Anton’s hand as Anton picks their sleep clothes to change into.

He checks the bathroom again, but still no cameras, then types:

_Illl tell later. Don’t ask._

Shows to Anton. Anton glances at him from the phone, nods. Motions for Viktor to give him the phone, types.

_Can just sit with you.while you showr._

Viktor types the reply fast, pushes the phone into Anton’s hands and presses himself to him.

_Want w you hold me_

Anton does. One hand on Viktor’s back, another on his nape—secure. “I’m here. Let me help you with all these clothes.”

There are too many buttons, but Anton works through them well, then pulls the undershirt over Viktor’s head—and Viktor seeks his lips. Their warmth, shape, softness, their taste already familiar and comforting—but he can’t, his own mouth has been—

Anton kisses him. Thoroughly, gently, guiding him, his tongue teasing but not cruel, sweeping against Viktor’s, and over his lips,—and that slight bite at the end of the kiss, as though sealing Viktor’s mouth, marking it as Anton’s—then Anton pulls back slightly, looks over his face. “You are so beautiful.”

Viktor doesn’t care, at the moment, that it is a lie.

He searches for more kisses, hands kneading Anton’s shoulders, murmurs between pressing of lips: “You are not a boy.”

Anton breaks the kiss, a frown on his face.

“He says it all the time,” Viktor explains. There is a lick of fire tattoo curving over a scar on Anton’s right shoulder—beautiful. “Boy. Insults you, dismisses you. Don’t let him diminish you. Don’t let _anyone_.”

Anton watches him with solemnity on his face, and says shortly: “I won’t.” It feels like a promise.

Viktor grips the hem of Anton’s shirt and tugs it off him.

_Anton_ is beautiful. There is the physical side, and Viktor runs his palm from the shoulder down across the clavicles onto the sternum, following the complex story of the tattoos and scars. Soft fat over steely muscles under his touch. Skin covered in tattoos so densely that inks become the skin.

And there is... everything else. Anton isn’t kingly like others. His approval isn’t conditional, his praise isn’t earned. His love is simply given.

There is a long, peculiar tradition in some languages and cultures to have cities as women, as “she”. Not so here: Mother Abundance and Father Ophir. But maybe... When one’s parents are cruel, neglectful, abusive, there is a point when it’s enough, when one runs—but the yearning for love never goes away. And one might find that love in someone else, someone who becomes their true parent, even though not connected by blood.

Maybe it’s both, in one person. Mother, and father, and whatever else they need.

“Father Ophir,” Viktor murmurs.

Anton lifts both brows, then laughs. “Me? No, no, it would be one-sided then, lacking the other of his faces.” He touches Viktor’s cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Refined and smug, smirking, and so beautiful...”

It doesn’t sound like they are playing roles. Anton isn’t playing much here in any case, only this “lover” part, and even then... Viktor thinks that, as a lover, Anton would be like this: tender, attentive.

It is Viktor here who is all fraud and lies. He doesn’t know whether there is anything truthful in him left anymore.

Some part of him yearns to be loved by this incredible person. To be worthy. But he won’t ever be worthy of anything and they simply can’t.

“I won’t ask,” Anton says, eyes dark, like amber. “But know that you can tell me.”

He smiles. “I know.”

“Now let’s actually get into shower,” Anton murmurs. Kisses him.

Viktor steps back, takes off the rest of his clothes quickly, gets into the stall. He doesn’t want to miss the view. He knows he can watch.

It’s not the first time he sees Anton naked, but.. Come to think of it, probably the first time he sees Anton naked _and_ not covered with blood or wounded.

Anton’s back is impressive, covered almost completely in tattoos cleverly designed to fit into one huge set of pictures. There is a poem on the left part running onto the side, already fading. Anton told him, once, that he doesn’t want to renew this poem—wants it to blur and fade and, ephemeral like spoken words, to almost disappear, leaving only a trace of themselves.

The rest of him is... delightful. Viktor can admit he always was fascinated with Anton’s thick thighs, the best backside in Ophir—partially covered in tattoos, too.

His fascination with Anton’s body is unusual to him, and he doesn’t quite know what to do. He could have... He could seduce Anton, yes—though maybe simply ask for... something. Sex. Or just touch. Anything. He wants to be where Anton is, near him, to touch him, be grounded by him.

He is fascinated, too, by how unselfconscious Anton is.

If Apfel thought he would be scandalized by the allegation that Anton had sex to survive, the bastard is mistaken. What is there to be scandalized by? Viktor understands. One works with what one has—and sometimes the last thing one has is one’s body.

“You can touch,” Anton says, folding his clothes casually.

Viktor grabs him by the arm and pulls him into the stall, Anton’s back to his chest, and turns the water on.

“Whoa,” Anton rasps. “That’s... tight. And hot.”

Viktor snorts. “You are terrible.” He nips at the pointy tip of the elfin ear.

“Mmm, I _love_ your dirty talk.”

It _is_ tight, they can fit well only if they press to each other—and Viktor doesn’t want to let go. Anton is so warm, soft, perfect. Hairless—Viktor finds he rather likes that nothing gets in the way of pictures on him.

And they dip low, he can hardly imagine the process of receiving tattoos so close to the cock.

Viktor’s height allows him a good view down Anton’s body, to appreciate how thick he is—everywhere. He runs a hand down Anton’s chest, following the swirls and knots and lines of scars; to the V of his hips, closer—then slides the lightest touch over the right thigh.

Soaks in Anton’s gasp, his rapid breaths—the way his chest and belly move with each inhale, exhale.

Then curls his fingers around the base of Anton’s cock.

Anton grips his wrist. Doesn’t push him away, doesn’t break bones—but pants, “Don’t have to...”

He closes his eyes briefly. Water falls on his shoulders, on the back of his head, his nape—not quite as enjoyable as Anton’s fingers, but close.

If Anton asked him—no, _ordered_ him, right now... Anton’s voice would hush away everything else. Anton’s hands would pick him apart, he imagines, expose his rot—and maybe Anton would not turn away in disgust.

Maybe.

He turns his head, kisses behind Anton’s right ear, where a small birthmark is hidden. “Please.” He wants to do something that wouldn’t bring more suffering or more rot into the world.

Anton lets go of his hand, glides a palm up Viktor’s arm—over his shoulder—into his hair. Grips tight. Viktor bends until his lips are at the base of Anton’s skull, silken, heavy flesh in his hand. He can do so much harm right now—but Anton allows him to do different. Trusts him.

He moves up, keeping his fingers tight enough. He doesn’t know what Anton likes—whether Anton likes anything—anyone— Viktor doesn’t want technique now, any tricks and experience and all the encounters that left him a little more rotten.

Anton is quiet and still save for the heavy breaths and occasional scrapes over Viktor’s head, sending shivers through Viktor. If that hand moves onto his nape, he won’t be able to hold back a moan, and Anton would be disgusted...

He clenches his teeth, closes his eyes—feels. Keeps one hand on Anton’s abdomen, taking in each breath, each quiver of muscle, as he strokes Anton—a handful, really, hot to the touch. He pauses, remembering abruptly that his hands are cold,—Anton tugs at the short hair, bringing him into focus. If Anton allows this, then he doesn’t mind.

He feels it, pressed body to body as they are, when Anton’s hips twitch, chasing the rhythm of his hand. He opens his eyes, studies the sight: a cascade of pictures blurred by water, made alive through flexes of the body they cover; a flushed cock, thick in Viktor’s pale fingers—he’d draw Anton like this. Beautiful. _Ophir Bared._

He smiles to this thought, rubs under the fat head of Anton’s cock.

Anton goes still, exhaling sharply—and comes in tight spasms, scratching Viktor’s head. He continues stroking, though keeps the wrap loose now—he just likes holding Anton. Would go on his knees and simply warm him...

But he can’t, won’t. That Anton is allowing him even this is more than Viktor deserves.

“V—”

He lets Anton’s cock slide out of his hand, strokes up his chest. Water washes everything away, as though nothing has happened, and tattoos hide any bodily flush. Only Anton’s labored breaths give some clue—and even they are quiet and soon calm down.

It’s fine this way. Better this way. As though nothing has happened. Just another part of the pretending.

“Sweet one.” Anton’s whisper against his shoulder is more touch than sound.

He presses his lips to the corner of Anton’s mouth. Water runs around their lips.

Anton turns to him, his eyes dark, irresistible... Viktor steps back—sways—feels the edge of one panel-wall of the stall digging into his spine. He shakes his head mutely.

He is hard, too, a heaviness low in his abdomen—unwanted. He doesn’t even want to look down. Doesn’t want to be touched—he wants Anton, but can’t _have_ him, and so doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want it to be a... business transaction.

Like before, with—

Anton strokes his cheek with the tips of his fingers, and he bends down. Anton kisses his cheekbone. “Wish I knew why you’re crying.”

“I’m not...”

“I think you are. Inside. I’ll let you finish washing?”

He nods. Clenches his fists—he can’t hold Anton, shouldn’t hold him.

Anton steps out, dries himself. Viktor watches, a pit in his stomach, a hunger. They are so close—but he can’t. He can’t. He isn’t—there is nothing. This is only... The role. He should find himself again, remind himself he’s not this role.

But then, what is all this? This hunger—just too much of pretending? This desire, this... Sacrifice.

This trembling joy which fills him at the sight of Anton’s smile. This image of going down on his knees and giving himself over to Anton.

He washes diligently. It doesn’t make him feel clean—it never worked on him. He always deals with fallouts after sleeper missions in other ways. But at least he is clean in a physical sense.

He pats himself dry and, while squeezing his hair, notices his own phone. He picks it up, opens text messages. He’s named Anton as “Tony”, filled the chat with fake messages using a small program designed to aid him in undercover missions.

Then texts:

<Want to kiss you.

He gets a reply almost immediately:

>Then come here.

Viktor puts on his sleep clothes, gathers everything and goes to their room. Anton, on the bed, opens his arms, and Viktor, dropping clothes though gripping his phone, sinks into Anton’s embrace.

“My sweet.” Anton kisses his hair.

He wants to tell Anton everything. Not just about his deal with Apfel, but every transgression, every lie, every kill and strike and hurt he’s ever dealt. Maybe Anton, no stranger to many of those things, is the only one who has the right to judge him.

Viktor kisses Anton. Presses a series of kisses from one corner of the mouth to the other, then to the scars on his chin. Lingering each time.

His words are lies, his actions are lies—but this isn’t. His kisses, now, aren’t a lie.

He’s choking on tenderness. He thought giving Anton pleasure would be enough—but he still _wants_. He wants to get back home.

But he doesn’t have a home. He has an apartment, a duty, a city, a corporation that owns him. And there, they are enemies. There, he can’t kiss Anton without at least trying to maim him.

Maybe his kisses are a lie, too. Maybe there is nothing but lies.

He’s suffocating.

“I’m here,” Anton whispers, as though he can feel that Viktor cannot breathe; locks their mouths as though he can make Viktor breathe again.

And it works. Like before, Viktor’s thoughts slow down, his body slows down. He’s practically climbed on top of Anton, but Anton doesn’t seem inclined to push him off.

Viktor drifts away like this, cradled in Anton’s arms.

The next day, he wishes he could have Anton’s kiss once in a few minutes: he’s too aware of everything. That they are surrounded by potentially hostile people. That their pretense might be ruined any moment.

That this is the last day they have to pretend. He is going to feel guilt. Is this the only way he can get that intimacy—through lies?

The house is even louder.

Children look for eggs. Viktor would rather stay in the garden with them than with adults discussing relatives, rumors, business... And besides, Anton is with children. He told them he doesn’t want to look very bad, compared to them, the champions of egg-seeking, but they still involve him here and there, showing him their trophies. One rather shy kid brings Anton a live chicken. Anton strokes her motley feathers and praises her looks and intelligence.

Anton is good with children. Regardless of their age.

When the hunt subdues, Marion, the small leader of this child-gang, goes to Anton, and, looking at him with big, innocent eyes, says: “Grandpa said you don’t celebrate Easter because you’re a Jew.”

So it _is_ an insult. All this. Apfels know they can’t hold their ground against the Vory. Thomas cannot antagonize Anton. But he wants to make it uncomfortable—a small pettiness.

Anton’s face shifts, but not to anger, even though Viktor notices how his left fist closes briefly, the cat ring glinting in the sun. Anton lowers himself right into the grass: the smallest child is only five. Viktor admires Anton’s ability to treat children as human beings, only smaller and with less experience—and not as pets or toys.

“It is wrong to call someone a Jew. You should say: this person is Jewish. Or: the Jewish man who played with us.”

“Weren’t Jews...” another child starts, then swallows and says: “Weren’t Jewish people the ones who crucified Jesus?”

Anton smiles. “Jesus was Jewish, too, and all the Apostles. ‘Yeshua’ is Jesus’s proper name.”

“I thoughts only Judas was Jewish!”

“All of them are. And Judas was, most likely, a zealot—a highly-skilled, ah, special agent fighting against those who hurt his people.”

“And he had red hair!”

Children break into giggles.

Anton chuckles. “Probably. We don’t know.”

“But he sold Jesus!”

“I think they planned it together, Yeshua and Judas. It is said in your books that Jesus had to die to be resurrected, didn’t he? Someone had to do it. To suffer eternal damnation from the people, so that his beloved friend and teacher could be glorified, so that people thought well on their traditions—not only Jewish people, as they always do, but everyone.”

Viktor wonders what all those adults would think of this.

“Uncle Anton, why are you Jewish?”

“Because my mother was. And because I chose it later.”

“Like we were born?”

“No, you weren’t born Christian. And you didn’t choose it—your parents did it for you.”

There are quite few open mouths. They are soaking in his every word. Viktor has noticed that adults here treat children rather like beloved pets, allowed many things but expected to behave in a certain way. And children feel acutely the way they are treated.

“Can I choose to be Jewish?” someone asks, and blushes.

Anton nods. “When you are older and if you study hard. It is a long process. You have to know and understand very well what it is you are choosing.”

“Study the Bible?”

“Question it. To ask many-many questions, and not just... obey. And many people might not like it. Like your family, your parents. But if you really want it...”

Viktor tries to keep away a smirk.

Apfel might think he has the last word—but Anton has just planted a slow-ticking bomb right in the middle of these old families. Rebellion. And Viktor has no doubt that, if ever this bomb goes off, Uncle Anton would be there to help these children wreak as much havoc as possible.

Anton gathers them up and sends them back into the house, to prepare for the big lunch.

Viktor meets Anton’s eyes and sees the glint of mischief there.

“ _Tu es un gobelin_ ,” he tells Anton, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Anton chuckles. “Well, it’s too early yet to tell them that Yeshua was gay and trans...”

“Scandalous, I love it,” he murmurs, rewarding Anton with a tight kiss.

Viktor’s good mood disappears almost entirely when they go to the lunch.

The table is set very formally, and Anton, as the guest of honor, is seated by the right hand of Thomas at the long table. At least Viktor is placed so that Anton is between him and Thomas.

And of course everything is set for right-handed people, even though Anton is left-handed.

Thomas hasn’t acknowledged Viktor since the... deal in any but polite way. As though nothing has happened.

Viktor wonders if this is a form of gaslighting, making him think as though nothing, indeed, happened, making him doubt his own mind. But Viktor has enough experience in dealing with things that make him doubt his own memories or his own sanity, including outright hallucinations.

He knows it happened.

But he doesn’t understand why it affects him so strongly. It is not the first time he had to do something like this.

Thomas looks at him briefly—and Viktor has to grip Anton’s hand under the table to stop himself from screaming.

Anton continues his casual talk as though nothing is happening—but his fingers lace with Viktor’s. Anton switches cutlery to his left hand, casually, as though he doesn’t notice glares.

They all hate him, Viktor realizes suddenly. They hate him because he’s different and doesn’t hide it; they hate him because he makes them afraid. Because he makes them think they must appease him.

Viktor entertains a thought of kissing Anton tightly right here, maybe it would offend them even more.

Thomas announces the end of the territorial dispute when the lunch is almost finished, as Viktor suspected he would. Anton is astonished, then frowns. Thomas gets up, holding a glass of wine. There is only wine for adults, but Anton doesn’t drink at all. Nobody asked him or, which Viktor thinks is more likely, it’s another point of insult.

“In the spirit of Easter!” Thomas says with a generous smile.

Anton gets up, too, the glass in his hand. It’s still full—he hasn’t touched it. Anton smiles just as generously, but his eyes are more blood than champagne. “I accept it—in the spirit of Passover.” He doesn’t drink, though, when Thomas does, and accepts glares with that same terrible smile.

Viktor tells Anton after the lunch, taking him to the quiet, deserted library. He tells Anton everything—it’s not a long tale anyway. Tries to ignore how badly he’s trembling, and the foul taste in his mouth.

As silence falls, he doesn’t dare to lift his eyes on Anton.

“May I touch you?”

He almost laughs. It’s him who should be asking that. Instead he nods—and sobs when Anton closes arms on him.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Anton murmurs, his cheek pressed to Viktor’s. “My sweet. You are not wrong. I’m sorry I failed to protect you.”

It makes no sense. But nothing else makes sense either, so Viktor just tries to wait out this... episode. He closes his eyes, bites his lips, trying to hold back any more shameful sounds.

“Vitya,” Anton whispers, so quietly Viktor barely catches it. “Vitya. I’m here.”

And somehow, it helps. To be acknowledged by his real name, but with such tenderness...

He pulls back. Anton smiles, touches his cheek. “Sweet one. I want to tell him something, do you want to go with me? You don’t have to. Then we will be off. We don’t have to stay.”

He nods. “I want to go with you.”

“You have nothing to fear,” Anton says. “I promise. Not while I’m here.”

He manages a smile, and takes Anton’s hand. “I know.”

Anton doesn’t break their hold as they find Thomas in the living room talking with a few gang members and relatives.

Thomas immediately smiles that generous, benevolent smile that Viktor wants to smear in blood. “Anton, my boy!”

“I wanted to say that we are leaving, Thomas. It’s a long ride to Ophir and we have work tomorrow.”

“Ah! Of course, I understand. I’ll tell the kitchen to give you some—”

“No need,” Anton interrupts him, and Viktor notices quite a few pursed lips: one doesn’t interrupt the patriarch. “Let your cook rest at least for a while. We have plenty food at home—food I can actually appreciate.”

Anton doesn’t take a menacing pose—yet it seems that everyone here is starting to understand what’s going on. Understand that Anton is making threats.

“You are an old, stupid goat with bigoted views,” Anton says casually, voice not just husky but raspy, “which you, sadly, try to inoculate to your grandkids. But I have hope for them: they are smart kids. They will grow and change—but you? You won’t. You won’t understand it my way, so I’ll say it to you in words you _will_ understand.” Anton smiles thinly—then shows fangs and hisses: “You don’t touch what is mine.

“You and your cabal of fossils and half-corpses have your cushy lives by _my_ grace. I permit you your little games and your little insults—but there is a line and you have crossed it. And I am known for my excellent memory. I won’t forget about it, Thomas—and one day, I _will_ come for you. You won’t ever know when, you won’t ever be ready, you won’t ever be able to protect yourself. I will come and you will _pay_.”

Thomas as though turns into a statue.

It is so satisfying to watch.

Anton smiles sweetly again. “Thank you for the invitation. We’ll go pack up and say goodbye to the kids.”

He kisses Anton when they are back in their room. “That was wonderful.”

Anton raises his brows. His eyes are glimmering. “Was it? I admit, it might be not as satisfying as cutting off his balls...”

“There is not much to cut.”

Anton snickers. “Still, we can always do that later. You know the way to his house now.”

He raises his brow to mirror Anton. “Are you enticing me to mutilation?”

“You wholly deserve the dubious honor of doing it.”

“My bloodthirsty goblin.” He kisses Anton again. Anton’s mouth tastes so sweet.

They stand with foreheads touching. Viktor sees as Anton, eyes closed, licks his lips. “Let’s go home, sweet one.”

“Yes.”

It isn’t surprising to Viktor that only children come to see them off. It _is_ surprising for him to receive quite a few hugs.

“Uncle Anton, will you let us come for Jewish holidays?”

Anton looks in astonishment at Marion for a moment, then smiles. “I’ll send you invitations, kids.”

“And the wedding?”

Anton’s cheeks bloom with pink. “ _And_ the wedding.”

They hold hands the whole way to the train station, and in the compartment, too. It is unfamiliar for Viktor to find himself comforted by touch, but Anton seems to be special in this regard.

Viktor knows this will be over in three hours. They will not need to pretend anymore. He aches. Sketches Anton, bent over the tablet, in fast, hungry strokes.

“What are you drawing?” Anton asks without looking up.

“You,” Viktor replies. He can’t stand lies right now, even though all this is based on lies.

“You don’t have to.”

“You make me want to draw.” He stops, replaying his own words in his head—and drops his pen, buries his face in his hands.

“Vitya.” Anton touches his knee.

He looks at Anton—who’s moved closer, crouching by his feet.

“Vitya,” Anton says gently, the way that breaks Viktor piece by piece.

“How can we return to what we are?” he asks quietly. He didn’t mean to say anything, but it tears through.

“You think that our fighting is what we are?”

“You are a criminal.” He frowns, sensing something important is wrong, and corrects himself: “The law says you are a criminal.”

And the law is in many ways broken, and some people sell themselves to those like Apfel just to survive.

Anton turns his head, looking away. Viktor covers his hand, and Anton turns his palm-up and closes his fingers on Viktor’s. “I wish we didn’t have to be enemies. I wish we worked together.”

“Of course, we can do a lot together,” Viktor echoes Anton, a bitter taste in his mouth. “You—changing the world, me—sucking—”

“Don’t.” It’s a small, quiet word—and it fills him with so much shame. “Don’t,” Anton repeats, eyes tender, “break it like this. Don’t diminish yourself. The blame is on that bastard, not you.”

“Maybe not in this, but you know how many of yours I wounded and killed.”

“And I wounded and killed yours, and others. But I don’t hate Aurorans for wounding and killing soldiers around me at the front.”

He forces himself to smile. Maybe it would stop Anton, make him storm away. Maybe it would make him hurt Viktor. “I’m sorry, but in this work I think I’m more of a general. A colonel.”

“This isn’t about rank.” Dark eyes. Dark eyes, pale face as Anton gets when he’s angry—but Anton doesn’t raise his voice or his hand.

A part of Viktor wants to keep pushing.

“Isn’t it? This is about duty, this is about responsibility and si—” Words fade when a hand touches his cheek.

“I’m scared, too, Vitya,” Anton says quietly. The ring is warm against Viktor’s skin. “It hurts. All of it. Generals—colonels—are commanded, too. I don’t want to hate you just because Abundance tells me to. I don’t want this to end the way she wants it to, I don’t want one of us to destroy the other.” Anton smiles quickly, sadly. “I might be a crazy bastard—”

“You are not,” Viktor says quietly, covering Anton’s hand, then kissing his palm. “You are not crazy.”

“Legally, I probably am. Abundance will keep using you, Vitya, but then gradually it will break you into the mold she wants—or destroy you. She will isolate you and chip away parts of you until you are in her desired shape and nothing like you were. And once she’s done, you will be discarded and she will pick a new toy.

“But if the only thing she understands is property law, then I, being a vor—a thief,—am going to steal you from her. Well, if you want, of course.”

Viktor manages a smile. “What a polite thief.”

“There is no need to make it barbaric.”

“How can it work?”

Anton sighs. “I’m not one to brag, Vitya, but you and I are among the most clever scheming bastards in the whole country, I think we can find the way.”

“And my people?”

“I’m thinking of stealing the whole set, you and them. And there are plenty of my kiddies who would be only happy to help.”

Viktor raises a brow.

Anton smirks. It looks good on him—mischievous. “You are not the only agent who captured attention of a Vor. Or several Vory.”

Viktor watches Anton, his strange clever eyes. Anton stays silent, and Viktor doesn’t feel like he’s being rushed. Anton is a man of contrasts, wonderfully unpredictable. Doing things that others wouldn’t even think of. Convention and Abundance dictate that they are enemies, that the only way any of this can end is with one of them destroying the other. To think that they can not only collaborate from time to time, but transform the rules of engagement themselves... This thought wouldn’t come to anyone—anyone but Anton. And like many other unexpected things Viktor is granted with by the Vor, is it utterly fascinating.

Can a tool run away? Determine their own path?

Maybe it’s possible if they do it together.

“I want to try,” he says.

Anton smiles—softly, his eyes more golden than bloody. “Trying is enough.”

Viktor pulls him up and, when Anton sits down by his side, Viktor puts his head on his Vor’s shoulder. He can hear a strange, quiet sound coming from Anton—a low purring. It is a very comforting sound.

He drifts off, his hand secure in Anton’s hold.


End file.
